by Caroline Rothrock
So much talk of the soul, you
must think it’s a glittering thing.
What does your soul look like?
Mine – the black brined plums
you comb from the flotsam and
cracking wrack on the shore.
It grows fat from the bodies
that catch the current
and dissolve on the floor.
Afraid, my soul eviscerates itself.
Hold it moist in your palms –
and it slips, splatters putrid jam
over your best pair of slacks.
The leftover sack is limp
like a spent penis or the skin
of a rotted looseclad fruit.